


Heart of Dread

by Waywardbf



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bi Solas, Evil Inquisitor, M/M, dark protagonist, retelling of game at first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-05-23 12:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14934101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywardbf/pseuds/Waywardbf
Summary: What if the Inquisitor wasn't as heroic as everyone assumes? What if he was dark, power-hungry, and might be working with the ancient Tevinter magisters?When Rasco Lavellan wakes in chains he assumes his mission in obtaining an elven orb has been compromised. He then realizes the Inquisition needs him to save the world, he therefore lets them think he's the hero they desprately need him to be. Although, a churning darkness hides behind his charming smile.Will the man that considers himself a monster find solace in his greatest nemesis?





	1. The Caged Beast

Blood pumps harsh in his ears. His bloodied knees scrape against hard concrete. Gasping against the pain, Rasco forces his eyes open. He takes a deep breath. The room is dark, to say the least. It’s quiet. Empty. He raises his head ever so slowly. Bones crack and sore muscles scream. He clenches his teeth. He tries to focus but his pulse is too erratic; his mind full of static. He picks himself off the ground. It takes his sluggish mind a minute to realize his arms are bound. 

“Shit,” he rasps. He now realizes how bone-dry his mouth is. A sinking feel of dread clouds his thoughts. Why is he here? Who chained him? Was he caught by the shems?

Bloodied and quenched, Rasco easily thinks back to the last moment he remembers. He was disguised in noble clothes while ducking behind ornate figurines that the people gawked at when they strode by in their expensive robes. A grand bell tolled. Everyone began to enter the Temple of Sacred Ashes: the mages spoke tentatively to the Templars. It was a strange sight indeed.

He crept around a statue of Andraste then mixed in among the crowd. He remembers the cold bite of wind, how Mothers of the Chantry welcomed each person at the top of the stairs. How his stupid shem hat confiscated his ears. He needed to blend in, but, by the Dread Wolf, was it uncomfortable.  
Rasco snorts— the only sound in his dark prison. Collecting his thoughts, he frowns. There’s not much he can recall after entering the main doors. All his clouded mind supplies is the remnant of sounds. Loud sounds. 

“Humans,” he groans. They destroy everything.

He plops onto his ass and tugs harder at his restraints. His muscles flex and, with a smirk, the rope groans. Music to his ears.  
He steels his beating heart to try and summon fire, to no avail. It seems his mana is dry. Although as long as his blood still pumps he will always have a last resort. Although with no daggers nor movement, blood magic won’t be helpful.

Drawing him to his senses, a distant door slams shut, and pounding footsteps draw near. Torches light, and Rasco stretches his neck to see his captors. An angry women gives a harsh command, then a small voice quips a “yes, sir.” 

The metal door squeals open, and Rasco cools his expression into disinterest. He’s still in noble robes, after all. Maybe he can convince the women that he’s some wealthy city elf that got invited to the peace talks. He is a mage. Mages were honored guests, yeah?

She storms in the cell with a dangerous look. Cropped black hair and venomous eyes. An eye is engraved in her armor: Chantry. She points a sword tip to his neck.

“What have you done?” her voice is low.

Nothing yet.

“Cassandra—” A redhead strides in behind her. Makeup that used to paint her face now runs down in rivulets. Her eyes shine with barley restrained tears. Again, Rasco reminds himself to control his expression. Fear won’t help now.

“He is responsible for— for—” the women’s hand shakes violently.

“Cassandra, please. We do not know the story,” she places a hand to her shoulder. “I am afraid we need information, now more than ever.”

The sword slowly retracts. Rasco leans forward, still impassive. With a huff, she brandishes her sword at her side and steps back. The redhead wipes her eyes.

“Tell us who you are,” the women named Cassandra booms. 

Rasco opens his mouth but pauses. He must answer these humans, although not in a way that will give them information about his mission. They cannot know what he is.

In a sultry voice, he answers, “I am Rasco of the Lavellan clan. And you, my lady?” he nods to the redhead. If there’s any chance of him getting out alive, it’ll be her. He must answer their questions to please her.

Her blue eyes squint at him. “First you must tell us how you survived.”

“Survived what?”

“Like you do not know,” Cassandra spits. “Everyone at the Conclave is dead, and you are the only survivor. Your hand glows green,” she points.

Rasco looks to his left arm in shock. Faintly, beneath his leather glove, a green light flares. “Ma ghilana mir din’an! What is that?”

The two women exchange glances that he cannot decipher. His mind spirals as he tugs on the ropes. He tries to shrug his glove off to see his hand. What magic is this, he ponders. He struggles to remember his Keeper blessing him with powers besides tracking the eleven orbs but comes up with nothing.

“We have no time,” the redhead whispers, “take him there.” With that, she turns on her heel and strides away. Her footsteps are silent as she disappears into the darkness. 

Which leaves Rasco alone with the crazier shem. He eyes her sword.

Cassandra stares down, hard, at Rasco. She curls then uncurls her fist. Rasco hurries to think what he could say to calm her. He licks his parched lips.

“Please understand, I’ve no clue what magic this is. I was invited to the Conclave. I’m not some elven spy. Whatever has happened isn’t my doing, especially killing anyone. I didn’t kill them.”

She huffs at that. “I am hesitant to trust you.”

Inside, Rasco seethes. He’s exhausted and fucking hungry. His stomach grumbles on command. Now that he thinks about it his arm does feel strange. Tingly, perhaps. Like it wants to unleash its power. Similar to what Rasco wishes to do. If he had any mana he would have burned through his restraints, or had Cassandra cut his ropes against her will. He guesses that’s the reason they starved him.

“But,” she begins, “I suppose we need you for a greater purpose.” 

Unbelievably, she motions for the two guards standing outside the cell. They step inside and reach to untie the knots. For the first time today, Rasco breathes a sigh of relief.

He rips his glove off. The pale white skin of his left arm glows with an eerie green glow. He turns his palm around, investigating.

“Follow me,” interrupts Cassandra.

He goes. She takes him to a door, unlatches it, and motions him through. He pushes it open with his left hand, still trying to listen for a hum of alien magic.

His boots crunch against the snow. Frigid air slashes across his exposed cheeks. He grunts, wishing for sun, when he sees the impossible sight. 

“We call it the Breach.”

The blue sky turns into ghastly green. Swallowing mountains, forests, and what used to be the Conclave, is a swirling void of ominous, churning clouds. It sends dizzying shivers up his spine. Pure energy shoots from the center like meteors tumbling to Thedas.

His hand explodes with a menace, green electricity stinging up his arm. He collapses with a gasp, feeling the energy scrape at his sanity.

“That Rift is the largest we know of. It grows, and will eventually swallow the world,” she kneels. “This madness was caused by the explosion of the Conclave. You are connected to these events. As the Breach expands, so does your Mark. It will kill you.”

He grunts.

“Come,” she awkwardly helps him up. “You are our only chance now.”

He follows. The shems share looks of blatant disgust as he passes. His nostrils flare, and Cassandra catches him baring his teeth to a group of onlookers. The sweet promise of blood magic calls to him. He wishes he could flick his wrist and have her grab a nice horse for him, one he could ride back to his clan and inform them of what has begun. They must know that his mission has failed. He will not be returning with Dirthamen’s orb without assistance.

Furious, he calls, “how do we get there?”

“Follow me.”

He sighs. His mind itches to tear a hole through her.


	2. Meeting The Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rasco and his new companions prepare to march on the Rift.

— One Month Earlier — 

Rasco sits heavily on a log. His knees tremble. He reminds himself to quiet his beating heart before the two return. Revealing weakness in front of them makes his stomach churn awfully.   
Wiping his bloodied hands on his frayed pants, he listens to the chirping birds that sit in the branches above him. The leaves sway and fall— winter is fast approaching. The wind caresses his aching arms.

He has been practicing spells with the other two mages. It has been rough. With the rest of the clan preparing offerings to Dirthamen, the three of them had to resort to using blood magic on each other. Unpracticed and unsupervised, they were bleeding messes by afternoon.

Rasco rubs his aching arms, flinching at the softest touch. Razor cuts lick up his skin at odd angles. He sniffs, taking in the heady aroma of thick, dripping blood. Never before was he allowed to dabble in blood magic. As he watches, mesmerized, by his bleeding flesh, he wonders what other clans would do if they found out how far Clan Lavellan has fallen. He smirks, wicked, at the thought. Instead of roaming grassy plains with halla at their sides, picking elfroot and sharing stories of Arlathan, like good little elves— his people have changed.  
He used to be good. Before the year, he would have laughed if someone spun stories of him killing and sacrificing shems. Using their corpses to summon demons. 

He used to fear the Fade. Like all Keepers, Althan’s job was to limit the amount of mages, and then make them fear their own powers. Before the year, his sisters avoided being in the same room with him for too long, most likely in fear of falling prey to demons. Now, pride shines in their eyes when he returns home. He is given special treatment. Men and women touch his shoulders as he passes in a warm greeting. He now smiles at every elf he passes, as if he’s the Keeper himself. 

A twig crunching snaps him from his thoughts.   
“We have gathered a healing drought, my friend,” Milorva greets. She steps into the clearing, her wounds having scabbed over. In that moment, Rasco notices how different her brown eyes appear. She is younger than he. Her dark skin is smoother; has less scars from accidental magic through the years. She wears her vallaslin and magic proudly. Although now a shadow falls over her pointy features. He wonders if he looks different now too. Malicious.   
“Pirahel has left to make preparations for tonight’s summoning. It is to be a full moon.”  
He smiles and takes the cup. The potion tastes like sweet honey.   
“Shall we continue?” she says.

He stands, brushing his pants. “Not with each other. We have instructions to understand the prisoner.”  
Milorva turns. Her black, braided hair reminds him of his own. He used to have long, flowing hair that blew gently in the breeze. Now, he’s gotten it cut. It’s harder for blood to clump after a long day.

“I detest the trances we go into. Her blood is… tainted.”  
“That’s the point.”  
She chuckles, thinking that he’s making a joke. She catches his eye and keeps staring. Rasco makes sure to crinkle his eyes just so. There was a time he would have thought he and Milorva would be an excellent match. They trained together each day, casting spells and rescuing each other from the lure of demons. She laughed with his sisters and twisted together vibrant stories of her night’s travels through the Fade. Now, everything has changed.   
He is a monster. As simple as that. 

They leave the forest walking side-by-side. They pass a crumbled statue of the Dread Wolf. Ever since an Enavuris has contacted them, they have destroyed all statues of the other Creators. Especially the one who tricked Dirthamen.   
Clan Lavellan will have their revenge. If Rasco has his way, he will be the weapon that ensures the elves’ revenge on Fen’Harel. His lips tug up at the thought. It surprises him, even now, his soul-deep devotion to Dirthamen. He supposes, like Milorva, he wears his vallaslin proud too. Their clan has been chosen by an ages-lost god to be the agents of his will. There is truly no greater honor. 

They step into the golden gates.   
“Please be sure, Rasco. Her mind is a wretched place. The calls of the dead don’t amuse me as they do you.”  
He smiles. “She’s just a Grey Warden.”  
“With the blood of a monster! I swear, an ambition demon is what will harvest you in the end. I do not understand your urge to control all blood.”  
“He requested it himself.” Rasco walks with his hands clasped behind his back, the picture of cool confidence as they pass elves. The clan is restless. Every elf carries bustling sacks that smell of smoke and herbs to the square.  
“Maybe tonight he’ll request something else, hm?” she says.

Even for a new building, the prison door squeals open as he steps inside. Golden torches of veilfire light his and Milorva’s way. It smells of sweet grass; the scents of flowers seems to billow into every building in their clan.

The prisoner sits in a quaint jail cell with vases filled to the brim with her blood perched on tables. Originally, Rasco and the other two mages hadn’t a clue how to understand Grey Warden blood, let alone try to manipulate it.   
“Hello,” he says.  
The Warden stares back, hard.   
“Nothing to say?”  
“Rasco,” Milorva warns. He suspects she doesn’t appreciate his teasing.  
He steps lightly into the cell. “Ready to begin?”

— Present Day — 

“Drop your weapon,” Cassandra demands, squaring her shoulders, her brow creasing dangerously.

The Breach swirls in the sky and blasts impressive balls of Fade energy. She’d be mad if she thinks he would prance around without a blade at his side during this apocalypse. Although, what he really needs to find is a staff. He could focus what mana he is regaining onto a spell to knock the madwomen out and escape this hazardous situation. He must report back to his clan— give them the news.

“You cannot defend me alone, Cassandra,” his deep voice rumbles against the swaying of the winter oaks around them. For now he will pretend he is a stranger to magic.

“I…,” she begins, then sighs. “You are right.”  
“I—”  
“But I am watching you.”

Following Cassandra, he continues to draw closer to the roaring of battle. The wind thrashes at his clothes as they take steep steps up. He hears swords thrusting into bodies, arrows firing, and screams echoing.   
Impossibly, the crackle of magic caresses his skin. “Who’s up there?”  
“Help,” she says. “You will see.”

He rushes up the stairs to see the battle raging on. Three soldiers fight alongside one another, trying to tear a demon’s head off. It floats above them, its inky black body causing the snow to blacken around it. Eyes like fire and claws like knives, it sheaths its razor claws into the neck of a screaming human.   
A sound like clockwork ticks, and then an arrow zips by Rasco’s face and buries deep inside the monster’s neck. He blinks. The arrow detonates into a searing blue flame. His hair is blown back. The demon shrieks. 

It turns, and sets its magnifying gaze onto Rasco. He clenches his fist around the dagger hilt he’s claimed. If the beast wants a fight he’ll give it to him. The shems cannot comprehend what clan Lavellan has done to seek the ancient elven orbs. He’s killed demons and trapped their raw essence, only to harness their chaotic energy for himself. He is a living weapon, he reminds himself. He hunches his shoulders and steps closer, like an an animal ready to pounce. The demon screeches.

His arm pulses. He drops the dagger and staggers to his knees, holding his wrist. Shit. White-hot pain sears his eyes closed. 

A firm hand clenches his wrist and pulls him back to his feet. He gasps, opening his eyes to a swirling, green cut in the fabric of reality. Energy courses through him, pulsing. 

A guttural scream tears through his lips— pain whips his consciousness around, causes his limbs to shake wildly. His left palm crackles with restrained energy. The tips of his fingers disappear into dazzling green light that mixes with the cut in the air. Reality shimmers. He’s mesmerized by it. The pull of the Rift draws him in, but the firm hand on his wrist steadies him. What magic is this?

The cut heals. His back slams the ground; his head pounds into the dirt.   
He lays, catching his breath, flinching at his sore left arm. It’s limp on his stomach: rising and falling erratically to his breathing.  
A pale hand reaches down through the greenish smoke. It smells of bombs going off. He takes the hand. His weak head lolls back as the strong arms tugs him upright. 

Rasco catches his breath, leaning heavily onto his knees. “What did you do?”  
“I did nothing,” the man answers. An interesting accent. “The credit is yours.”

The smoke clears, and Rasco sees how far apart him and the man are from everyone else. The solders tend to a few bleeding bodies with supernatural scars. The women in armor-- Cassandra-- has her back turned and sword tucked away. She angrily spats at a dwarf.

His gaze falls on his rescuer. The unnatural green tint of the sky glints off his bald head. He wears drab clothes, nothing like Rasco’s noble wear with white and red beaded fabric. The elf doesn’t ever wear shoes—  
“You’re an elf?”  
He chuckles darkly. “As are you.”  
Rasco’s eyes fall next to the staff gripped in his hand. It is… ornate. Fair wood that leads to a circle top with triangles. A sun with sun beams. He sniffs, and the discharge of magic fills his nostrils. This elf has muscled shoulders and pink cheeks. Eyes filled with emotions he cannot comprehend. His ears are a comfort. 

“Whatever opened the Breath I theorize put that mark on your hand. It may have the power to close the Breach itself,” he bares a hole into Rasco’s guarded eyes, “it seems you hold the key to our salvation.”  
“I—,” Cassandra says from behind.  
“Good to know,” the dwarf says, “thought we’d be ass deep in demons forever.” He has light brown hair and eyes to match. The amount of skin he’s revealing makes Rasco take a step back. “Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, and occasional unwanted tag along.”  
“Are you with the Chantry?” he asks.  
The elf laughs musically, along with the dramatic guffaw of the dwarf.  
“Was that a serious question?” the elf with the smooth accent says. 

Rasco appreciates that laugh. It’s charming, he realizes. Nothing like howl of Milorva or the horselaugh of Pirahel.  
“We must keep moving,” Cassandra interrupts. “It seems you were correct, elf.”  
Solas tips his head to Rasco. “It seems so. By the way, I am Solas, if introductions are to be in order.”  
He can’t tear his eyes away. “Are you Dalish?”  
“Solas is an apostate,” Cassandra says. She marches off.

Varric shoulders his contraption and saunters after her. Solas casts a pointed look at the dagger Rasco bends down to pick up. He frowns at his own carelessness. If any Chantry shems realize his battle instincts come from his mind rather than primitive blades, his mission could become rather challenging.  
“It seems we both have our secrets,” he whispers. Rasco ignores it.

They join the others by a frozen lake. He wonders if the Breach has caused this place to ice over more than usual. Why shems enjoy the cold he does not know.  
\----------  
“So, kid, you’re a rogue too, huh?”

The four of them cut through hoardes of demons as they draw closer to their operation’s central command. Rasco hopes so, at least. Cassandra has taken point and is speaking in loud outbursts to a well-muscled shem in armor and fur. Solas nurses a bloody wound. Something about him gives Rasco a type of feeling he has not figured out yet. Not a good one. He has not let the elf stray from his watchful gaze.

Varric, it seems, is trying to shake off his hidden fear of demons by conversing. “Of course,” he smooths away any doubt.  
The silence stretches for a few moments before, “you don’t talk much, do you, Green?”  
He keeps his gaze trained on Solas’ back. “I’m a man of action, dwarf.”  
“Heh.”  
—————  
After charging with the soldiers, Rasco and his battlemates finally step foot onto the rubble of the Conclave. Scorched body parts explain the foul smell. He weaves around fallen pillars, some that he notices, although most have become soot on his booted heel. Behind him, gears clink as Varric loads an arrow. Cassandra tells them to keep moving.

His eyes crinkle at the sight of so much spilled blood. Ah, it almost feels like home.  
—————  
“Who was that?” Rasco demands. Sweat beads around his temple. He feels utterly wrecked but doesn’t understand why. Once the deep voice spoke he could feel restrained panic festering deep in his gut. Who could cause that fear so quickly has his mind spiraling?

“It seems,” Solas snaps his attention from the Rift, “that is the voice of who opened this Breach.”  
“Uh, Seeker? Are you seeing this?” Varric stands transfixed before bulging red crystals.  
“Red Lyrium,” she huffs.  
“Yeah, but what’s it doing here?”

Rasco realizes his feet haven’t stopped. He continues shuffling down the broken stairs, passing the warm crystals and bloodied snow. Above, the vortex spirals and convulses. He curses silently. He swears that the voice has penetrated his mind. It whispers forbidden songs against his guarded thoughts. Memories that can’t be his flash behind his tightly shut eyes.

A gentle hand clasps his shoulder. “I hear it too,” Solas hums.   
Rasco shakes him off and keeps moving. The path ends. He peers over the side, noticing the small drop. He steps forward without a thought.  
His joints scream, but the old women draws his focus. Outlined in red, she floats near the Breach, screeching in an annoying voice. He doesn’t disguise his scorn from looking at her. He’s sure that the ugly memories resonate with her.

The deep voice rattles against his skull. He sinks to the ground, hands clutching his ears. His shoulders curl forward, trying to cover himself. He clenches his teeth by the dizziness of his mind.

Surprised, Cassandra says, “The Most Holy called out to you. But how?”  
He doesn’t remember her following him. He peels his eyes open to see the three gathered close, all watching the women and the shadowy figure. Varric helps him up.   
“And the Divine, is she…?” Cassandra continues. “Is this vision true?”  
His fists clench at his sides. “I don’t remember.”  
“You—”

“Echoes of what happened here,” Solas says. “The Fade bleeds into this place. With the Mark, it can be open, and closed properly and safely.”  
“Bianca’s happy to kick some ass.”  
“However,” Solas continues, eyes pleading, “opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”  
Rasco suppresses a chilling smile.   
“That means demons. Stand ready,” Cassandra bellows.

Soldiers step forward to draw their blades out, while archers knock their arrows back. Cassandra bends her knees and hides her body with a shield. Varric saunters backwards, training his contraption on the Rift. Solas digs his staff into the snow, giving Rasco a look. 

He stares up at the Rift. Wind brushes his dark hair back like a hand caressing him as he steps forward. He clenches his fingers around the dagger. Any doubts that might cloud his judgment he stomps down. Now isn’t the time to show weakness to the Chantry. If opening this Rift and working with these people is any hint towards finding the elven orb, then he will gladly give his life to help. Weapons don’t deserve doubt.

He shoots his hand out, palms wide, searching for the swaying current of magic, and sends a vicious smirk forward. Green magic emits from him, searing at the cascading Rift. It shudders, as if it breathes. 

Light explodes. A towering creature of scales erupts from thin air. The roaring pounds his temples. Electricity courses up its back and arms. 

“Fire,” Cassandra orders.

Arrows fly. Magic itches through his very being. Fire pulses in his gut; his blood dances. He stomps down the urge. They cannot know what dark creature he has become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I love presenting the mystery of who Rasco is and what he has done to get this far.   
> Why does he consider himself a monster? ;)


	3. Dreamwalkers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the fight with the demon rages, haunting memories flash before Rasco's eyes. He becomes so panicked he's forced to use blood magic to defeat the demon.

— One Month Earlier — 

As rocks rise and gravity goes lax, Rasco tries not to crinkle his nose in discomfort. Here, his skin doesn’t glisten with sunlight, it prickles and sweats. He feels lost. Out of his element. The Fade is an erratic place where his spells would be laughed at. A shallow sigh ghosts from his lips.

“Come, I will make a path,” Pirahel offers. His dream-like hands wave, and a stone bridge appears above the great chasm.   
Milorva rolls her eyes. “Like a shemlan, you are.” She flicks her wrist and summons three pairs of silver boots with flapping wings on either side. “We’ll fly there.”

They take off. His stomach lurches at the sight of miles of a tumultuous wasteland. Inhuman wails of glee or terror fills his ears. He has never been a friend to the Fade like his two closest friends. The clan calls them Dreamers. It’s supposedly a rare gift to have one in a clan, let alone two.   
He skids to a halt atop a breathtaking spire, one that floats upon wisps of clouds. Its exterior is onyx, with statues of ravens decorating the towers. Nothing about this place calms his nerves. But returning to such a place lost to history reminds him of their mission. 

Pirahel slips open a secluded hatch and drops in. He follows, silently. The passages of the god of secrets’ castle are maze-like, ever-changing. He navigates them down winding walkways and battlements that used to hold off sieges. Whispers echo from spirits that recreate these epic battles.   
Rasco feels calm among brethren. Together, the three of them have journeyed through the Fade, whether to scout the clan’s next destination or defeat a demon that torments one of their own. Pirahel and Milorva can enter the Fade any time they wish. It is he that they must wait on. Sometimes when they plan an urgent trip he goes to sleep praying to the Hearth mother he wakes up in the Fade, but alas he wakes in the waking world, with his friends casting him annoyed looks. 

Pirahel breaks the silence, “do we think the guardian will let us pass this time?”  
“Last time all she needed to see were our vallaslin. Why?”  
“Well,” Milorva says, “he is expecting us, yes?”  
“I am paranoid,” he mutters. “Mala suledin nadas.”

Rasco keeps moving, ignoring their conversation about the castle. The darkness pulls at him. The divide between his skin and the air pulses as if they’re connecting: merging.

— Present Day — 

He looks down. A soldier’s singed body twitches, as if life still courses through it. Her burnt fingers reach for a sword one last time. One flick of electricity was all it took to send this women to the next realm. He frowns.

The battle rages on. Cassandra shudders at a bolt of electricity zaps her, but her shield reflects most of the attack. Her arm is a blur as she hacks and slashes at the demon’s scaly legs. Daintier soldiers try to meld into a trance of war like her, but their fears carry them to one wrong move and then nothing. Bodies pile around the demon’s wake.

Varric kneels by the other archers. Or, stands, perhaps. He yells encouragement, trying to heighten everyone’s spirits. Rasco laughs at that. If these shems need a cause rather than wishing for blood to be spilled then he pities them. Even so, amongst the darkened room, he spots glints of silver that plunge into soft spots on the monster that makes it howl. He appreciates the backup, no matter how talkative it is.

Solas hasn’t left his side. He watched him, intrigued, as he tore open the rift, then threw up a magical barrier around them both as the demon sprang loose. He unleashes balls of fire and sheets of ice from his staff. His form blurs as he dances around his staff. The hint of a smile tugs at his lips. He wonders if this mage may think his staff-holding brutal; untrained, almost. 

He tightens his grip on the dagger and prepares to launch an attack. His arms are tightened, knees bent. He isn’t a stranger to combat or demons. As the barrier tingles, confidence surges. He will fight with a dagger and disguise his magic.

The metal sinks into the demon’s back. He dives to the side, turns, to slash the dagger across its reaching hand.   
Lightning flickers across its shoulders, lighting rubble and frightened faces. He ducks. His hairs stand on end. The rumbling laugh sounds like the voice is drowning underwater.  
Another slash. He spots Cassandra expertly cut off a few fingers.

— One Month Earlier — 

Pirahel and Milorva leave him alone in the darkness. 

The grand door, decorated with the ravens Fear and Deceit, is appropriate. He cracks a smile despite his situation. 

Perched atop a a statue he cannot discern, a raven blinks down at him. He presumes its beady eyes search for a weakness. Hoping for a distraction from his uneasiness, he draws near. It squawks.   
“Hello,” he says. “What kind of spirit are you?” He is familiar with spirits latching onto animal forms in the Fade, a skill Pirahel has mastered.  
It cocks its head.   
He stands before it. Instead of black fur it shines a dark purple, illuminated by a hint of veilfire. Eyes that peer back look ancient.   
Scrunched into its talons is a crumbled piece of paper. He reaches for it.

— Present Day — 

The whip of electricity cracks onto his chest and he falls, breathless. The demon keeps fighting, keeps slashing at the struggling soldiers.   
Clanking shoulders, sweat glistening off each other, Rasco notes how heavy the soldiers breathe as they try to block electrical attacks. His own chest heaves as he struggles to get up. He desperately wants to reach back and have a staff under his back.

“I wonder,” Solas says, his face hovering over him, “if trying to close the Rift could prove useful.”  
He grabs his shoulders and heaves him upright. “I don’t need your help.”

Rasco fixes his stare on the pulsing Rift. His blood boils.  
Strange, he thinks, in the crux of battle is he reminded of his greatest act. He can still smell the parchment of the note the raven gave him.  
The demon roars: sending Cassandra flying. Her head slams into concrete rubble. Even from the dim light he sees blood dripping from her mouth and head. She lays motionless. Although, the blood gives him a wonderful idea. One that is another itch to scratch. 

“Now!” Solas barks. 

— One Month Earlier — 

Reality is discouraging. 

Rasco looms over two slumbering bodies. Their slim chests swell and lower slowly, like the pulsing of gentle waves. Pirahel and Milorva have always found solace in the Fade. When they close their eyes they’re both excited to see each other in a few minutes; excited to explore elven ruins that float in the sky. Sometimes he joins them— he has no choice. They welcome him with gleeful laughs and knowledge long lost to time. But most nights they squeal over breakfast all the places and spirits they discovered. 

And now, the three of them have been blessed with assisting an Evanuris. The clan treats them like royalty now. The Keeper enjoys watching them practice once-forbidden blood magic. 

His friends are such deep sleepers. He clenches his fist around his staff. Images of his friends flash before his eyes. Milorva used to tell stories around the camp fire with fire dancing on her fingertips. Pirahel caught fish by bending the currents to form water cages. 

A chill from the open window sends goosebumps up his spine. The moon glints from high in the sky, giving him the cover of night to hide his monstrous form. The moment his black eyes shot open minutes before he knew everything had changed. His body, mind, and magic belong to another now. 

The note crinkles in his right fist. Even in reality does the Fade bleed. He awoke to the raven’s message clutched in his fingers, reminding of his purpose. His destiny. 

Tears well in his eyes as he slowly raises his staff.

— Present Day — 

No hesitation. Rasco shoots his arm out to the Rift— crackling energy burning through his skin.   
“Mala suledin nadas,” he whispers. 

Green light engulfs his vision. Then, his back slams the ground. He hears ringing. Solas strides to his side.  
“It seems I was correct. Closing the Rift harms the demon. Here,” he offers his hand. Rasco’s vision spins. He’s pulled up. His body sways dangerously. 

All at once does the memory of that night dizzy him. His knees shake at the words that will forever haunt him. Sacrifice one Dreamer to prove your loyalty.

The memory tugs at his self control. He holds the stolen dagger in his palm. Focusing on the demon, he wastes no time plunging the blade into his stomach like the spell hit his friend. He closes his eyes at the wealth of thoughts thumping through his mind— the demon’s reality in exchange for his own.

There was no scream after. The other Dreamer was perfectly asleep, no doubt occupied with an errand from the god of secrets.

He senses the beating heart of the demon. Everything. Its mind, its memories. He closes his eyes to hear the demon scream. He imagines its skin tearing apart.

“Ah,” Solas says.

He opens his eyes to see guts splattered all around the broken Conclave. Soldiers lean heavily onto their swords, mouths gaping open. Blood and demon ichor drip from above. Varric rushes towards Cassandra’s body. 

His knees finally buckle. He sees raven feathers before the darkness swallows him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading! I hope you enjoy the mystery of Rasco and his clan that I'm slowly unfolding.


End file.
